


Let Me Go (Down)

by NeonDaisies



Series: Relationship Negotiation 101 [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Stand Alone, cuddle porn interrupted by actual porn, giggly sex, inconsistent use of religious imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 14:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonDaisies/pseuds/NeonDaisies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early morning sun heats his bedroom, making it seem later than the thump of papers being dropped off for the newsstand on the corner indicate. They have all the time in the world, he thinks as he licks the salt of her sweat from his lips. </p><p>“I just wanted a taste,” he murmurs against her ear, not bothering to pretend to innocence.</p><p>Claire laughs deep in her throat and turns his head enough that she can brush her smile against his. “The last time you said that,” she sighs, “I couldn’t feel my toes for an hour afterward.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Go (Down)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this is a one-shot based on a) a prompt from the DD kinkmeme, and b) an extension of my 'Another Night' universe. The fic does, however, stand alone without having to read my other fic, but that's where all the relationship development happens. If you're interested. ;)
> 
> Title of the fic comes from the song "Philomena" by The Decemberists.

“Nuh-uh.” Claire’s fingers tighten in his hair and (gently) wrench his head to the side.

Matt can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. His muscles have that satisfying ache that comes from physical exertion, and _her_ muscles are still shivering.

With a groan (exaggerated), he levers up onto his forearms and drags his bottom lip from her navel to her neck. She likes it when he hovers over her, cages her with possibility instead of dead weight. (Though she likes that too.) And it has been _two weeks_ since they’ve managed to sleep the entire night in the same bed. If she thinks she’s escaping so easily, she has another think coming.

But her fingers, which keep their grip, don’t try to guide him, so maybe she’s just feeling playful.

Early morning sun heats his bedroom, making it seem later than the thump of papers being dropped off for the newsstand on the corner indicate. They have all the time in the world, he thinks as he licks the salt of her sweat from his lips.

“I just wanted a taste,” he murmurs against her ear, not bothering to pretend to innocence.

Claire laughs deep in her throat and turns his head enough that she can brush her smile against his. “The last time you said that,” she sighs, “I couldn’t feel my toes for an hour afterward.”

“I don’t remember hearing you complain. Quite the opposite, actually.” He doesn’t kiss her, chooses to tease her with proximity instead. Strokes a single finger along the shell of her ear, nips at her collarbone, inhales the humid air at her throat and sighs it out over her lips. Says her name softly and imploringly…

Grins as his tactics make her laugh. The sound bounces around them, throaty and carefree as she arches her bare body into his, arms sliding around his shoulders (legs sliding around his hips) and dragging him down to press her into the mattress.

“No! I’m not going to the farmer’s market with beard burn on my thighs.”

“Not with that attitude you’re not.” Childishly he rubs his stubble across her upper chest. She has rules – good, reasonable rules – about leaving marks where her patients (or supervisors) might see, but this will be gone by tomorrow morning.

“Matt!” (Still laughing, still loose and relaxed under him.) Her hands slide down his shoulders, over his arms, to feel him up or push him away…

He catches her wrists easily and pins them to the bed as he levers up for a kiss –

– and pauses. Listens as Claire’s heart skips a couple beats before starting to race. Smirks as her temperature spikes a few degrees. Makes a show of taking a deep breath as she moves under him, stirring her scent into the air.

He’s only recently become comfortable with _this_ , with giving her something to strive against. With giving her strength and force, tempered with gentleness.

She squirms and pulls against his hands, testing. He barely tightens his grip (not even close to bruising her) but it’s enough to completely still the motion of her arms. He swallows a mischievous impulse to ask her to list the bones of the wrist and hand, but Claire reacts so strongly that the whim is lost almost as soon as it enters his head. Her body twists and arches under his restlessly, shoulders braced against the bed, ribcage and hips bucking up into him. And the sudden burst of her arousal – the heavy, elemental scent of her (like unfurled roses, like new-turned earth, like a bakery in the morning) – fogs his thoughts. Well, the unimportant thoughts. He’s suddenly extremely focused on achieving his original goal.

“Claire…” He rubs his scratchy cheek against her neck, cherishes every soft moan and sigh she forgets to stifle. “Please, Claire.” He shifts, traps both wrists in one hand; cups the side of her face and traces her bottom lip with the other. “I’ve missed you.” (He can practically taste her on the air, but it’s not the same.)

“S-stop.” Her voice is breathless and rough, but her heels press into the backs of his thighs.

“Stop?” He strokes his fingers along her cheek. (He will never get enough of her skin.)

“You can’t look at me like that.”

His heart gives a few startled beats of its own. “And how am I looking at you?” Hearing himself described through her words never fails to excite him.

She (laughs) (groans) (pants) tries to catch her breath, turns her head and catches his thumb between her teeth and nips hard. “Like you want to eat me whole.”

 _Yessss…_ He knows his lips are sliding into a self-satisfied smirk. “Well… You’re not far off.” Such lovely, soft, heated skin; such deliciously throaty purrs from that extended throat as he digs his fingers into her thigh and hooks his elbow under her knee.

“Matt, please…”

“Yes?”

“Shave first.”

“What?” He pulls back, certain he’d misheard.

“Beard burn. Chafing. Not as sexy as you think. Shave first.”

 

+

 

Claire wolf-whistles when he comes back into the bedroom. She’s moved over to his side of the bed, legs crossed and leaning back on her hands. And – unless he’s reading things incorrectly – completely and utterly naked. He’s half tempted to tackle her to the bed, to bite hot kisses into every exposed inch of skin, starting at her neck and ending between her legs where the heated scent of her flows into the air.

(He wets his lips thinking about it, and her pulse nearly doubles before slowing down again.) Smirking, he stalks across the floor until he’s standing in front of her and he…waits.

He doesn’t wait long. Claire’s legs shift, extend. Her feet hook over the side of the bed, knees grazing his thighs as she slides her body towards the edge of the mattress. She burns brighter and brighter, everything about her becoming _more_. (Temperature rising, lungs heaving, heart pounding.) He slides his hands into her hair as she tilts her head back to look up at him. (The point of her chin rests just below his ribcage.) (He can hear her swallow hard, wet her lips.)

“See something you like?” he asks as he leans down to meet her upturned face.

“Ehhh…” She teases him with a non-committal sound before surging up those last few inches to press her lips to his. Her mouth opens hungrily, her hands skimming over his cheeks. The gentle brush of her fingers helps to soothe the rawness left from the razor.

And this – _this_ – is the best part of sex with Claire. This sense of connection, of partnership, of something that falls between a reckless honesty and the most private intimacy. No matter what happens, she is _with_ him, as fully engaged and present as he is, as his senses make him be.

The sheer openness of it all…of being with someone he doesn’t need to hide anything from…is still enough to make him giddy.

It’s awkward, standing over her, bent in half and unable to touch all the skin he wants to. So he goes down on his knees, slipping one arm behind her hips and tugging her ever closer to the edge of the bed. Her moan vibrates against his lips, long and sustained and needy in the best way. Her hands comb through his hair and over his face again and again, keeping him close. (As if he wants to be anywhere else.)

But then he shifts his weight and can’t quite hide his wince (half a wince), which is enough to make Claire pull away. Not far – he can feel the way her brow wrinkles in concentration as she tries to find the words she wants.

“Knee.” She shakes her head. “No. Pillow. You should have one. For your knee.”

“My knee is fine.” And really, he’d rather get back to kissing and the charming (and well, flattering) way Claire turns almost speechless when she’s aroused.

“Pillow,” she insists, stretching away from him to reach for one. Matt sighs; arguing about it isn’t worth the trouble, considering she’ll dig her heels in about his comfort. He bows his head and rubs his cheek against her thigh, and takes the pillow she fumbles to him and tucks it under his knees. (And yes, that’s better, but it hadn’t really been _bad_ –)

“Matt?”

“Mmmm?”

“I can still feel my toes.”

A shiver runs through him and with it a faint memory of a cartoon dog vibrating and going comically stiff as it picks up a scent runs through his mind (no less absurd for it’s lack of clarity). “Open for me.” And her thighs spread that little bit wider so that he can comfortably tuck his elbows under her the backs of her knees, so that his hands can easily grip her hips or play over the top of her thighs. But that really hadn’t been what he’d meant, not exactly, so he asks again, taking a possessive pleasure out of it, “Open for me.”

“Matt…” His name is a groan, a prayer, a supplication for mercy as she hesitates. But only for an instant. Claire, (his wonderfully brave, deliciously honest Claire) slides her fingers between her legs and slowly, deliberately, spreads the folds of her sex for him. Her (their) breathing is rough as the explicitness of the act (of her trust in him) sinks in. And when he can’t stand it anymore, he tilts his face down and gives in to what they both want.

 

+

 

Soft.

Gentle.

Claire likes the slow approach, even – especially – in this. The calculated seduction of her senses. Matt lets his breath (uneven though he tries to control it) wash over her. The tip of his nose brushes against the curls covering her mound, and Claire can’t help but sigh at the slight stir of sensation it causes. The fingers holding her open for his ease tremble, and she digs those of her other hand into the tight muscles at his shoulder to anchor herself.

(He likes wearing her bruises, he says, especially near his neck. Likes feeling the high collars of his dress shirts chafe against them.)

He presses close, head bowed and body tight. All she can see is his mussed hair and the contrast of her legs draped down his back. (His skin turning white under the pressure of her fingernails.) Shifting on his knees he twists slightly, bites kisses to the inside of her thigh, teeth grazing the skin right over the femoral artery. Bites a little harder as he correctly interprets her response. (She won’t let him leave marks anyone can see, but this will be their secret, a fleeting reminder of his strength.)

“Please. Oh, please.” She’s missed _this_ as much as she’s missed _him_ , and their quick, sleepy lovemaking earlier had been good, but good is not the same as enough. Is not the same as this tense awareness of each other. Of knowing that he will tease to hear her beg, and she will beg because it teases him. (And he does tease, dragging the tip of his tongue up the length of her middle finger and down the length of her index.) “Matt…” She draws his name out, sighs the _a_ on a long exhale, and he rewards her with gentle, open-mouthed kiss between the V of her fingers. Her head drops back on her neck, the effort to keep watching too much to maintain.

“Yes. Please.” Her fingers tighten a little more, but don’t try to guide him. He’ll tip her over the edge when he’s ready, and he’ll make the fall as gentle as being laid back into bed. He doesn’t want desperation from her. Not yet, at least. (That will come later. First come the ruthlessly sweet climaxes.)

His nose nudges against her clit and Claire spreads herself wider, exposes herself to soft lips. “Oh…ohhh…” Matt’s mouth is hot and slick and her body responds in kind. The sounds he makes are overwhelmingly sexual – low, satisfied growls and hums that shiver through her. Sounds that invite response (as if she could stop the slow, rocking motion of her hips).

And then…then he pulls away. Not far. His cheek is velvety soft on her inner thigh, but it’s enough to make her look down.

He’s licking his lips.

 _Aiii…_ She can’t help it. She reaches out with her two wet fingers and places the tips on his pouting bottom lip. And stops breathing when he wraps his hand around her wrist and holds it in place.

“Want something?” His voice is deep. Husky. And when he sucks her fingers into his mouth to the first knuckle, her eyes flutter shut. Claire nods, all her attention focused on her fingers (his mouth, his lips, his tongue) as he slowly bobs his head up and down.

“Use your words, Claire.”

She laughs (sobs) once and shakes her head, not in denial but to jar something (anything) loose. “Ahora.” _Please, please, please now._ “Matt.” _Now, Matt._

And he is obedient (or merciful) (or greedy). He lets her fingers go and nuzzles back in, biting at her with a mouth made plush with kisses and tongue never penetrating her but tracing her outer lips over and over and over until…

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Her orgasm drifts through her like smoke curling from a stick of incense, warm and slow and hypnotic. (If her pleasure is the offering he requires then she will be his willing sacrifice.) His hands ground her, fingers splayed through hers, gripping, holding, keeping her in place as he devours her at his leisure. And when it’s enough (not _enough_ ), when the orgasm reaches a natural end he pulls away, shifts her up the bed with an arm behind her shoulders and the other under her knees. Calms her with kisses scattered over her belly, her ribs, her breasts, her neck. And when she’s ready, she meets him, turns her head and kisses him deeply, using her mouth to show him what she wants from him next.

 

+

 

Claire sways over him, a column of flame that directs him, a wave continually breaking against him. He’s surrounded by, glutted on the feedback of her body. It’s hard to hear anything over the pounding of blood in her veins (over the slick sounds of his mouth against her, over his own staggered breathing, the creak of the bed frame as her weight shifts) and he happily confines his senses to this room, this woman, this moment. To one hand braced low on her belly, controlling her forward thrusts, to the other sliding up her spine; the tips of her hair brush against the tips of his fingers as she tosses her head. To the taste of her pleasure, the openness of her body and the answering demand of his.

Above him she pitches forward as he thrusts his tongue as deep as it’ll go; her fingernails rasp against the wall she braces against as he swirls and laps and sucks at her, ready to guide her over the edge again. His hands are big enough that he can just shift his thumb down a little and have her clit within reach. Her voice rises, the siren beckoning even as her body is the ship that will be dashed against the rocks. And he answers the call, urging her on, and on, and on until she shatters.

 

+

 

He enjoys this too much. Not that she’s complaining. Really. She’s never had a partner more (single-minded?) (enthusiastic?) (thorough?) dedicated to…

“Oh. Oh, I can’t think when you do that. Matt…oh god, Matt –” It’s so simple a thing, just the barest tips of his two fingers stroking over and through the wetness between her legs (hers, his, theirs), but it’s too soon. Too much. Too little. Too…something. “Matt, please…”

He listens. Turns his hand and cups his palm against her, providing a steady heat. Steady pressure. Doesn’t rob her of sensation entirely, just tempers it. Claire sighs heavily and relaxes, closing her legs to hold him close.

“How are those toes?” Matt slides up the bed, lets her tuck herself under his shoulder, rest against his side, pillow her head on his arm.

“Tingling.” She stretches out, enjoying the weight of her body, the heat of his. The heat of the sun on her back. The light shining through his hair, playing along his soft smile.

“And you?” The arm supporting her head curls up behind her, strokes over her shoulder, her hair. “Is the third time going to be a charm, or are you thinking about tapping out?”

“Depends.” The lovely thing about having the days of _not_ -having-had-the-sex-talk behind them is that Matt takes the ebb and flow of her desire at face value. “We keep going now, I’ll probably still be full tonight.” Full. Satisfied. Satiated. Not that she’ll have had anywhere close enough to him, but their libidos don’t always align and he is not good at being selfish. If they keep going now, then tonight all she’ll really crave is a good cuddle. (Not that she wouldn’t still suck him until he’s a puddle on the sheets, and happily, too.)

“On?” He nuzzles at her hairline, the picture of patient manhood, as if he weren’t hard and damp against her belly.

“On whether you want enthusiastic participation or undivided attention later tonight.”

It’s not the same, the way he brings his face close to hers, rests his forehead against hers and allows her to look her fill; doesn’t hold the same impact it would if he could meet her eyes. But Claire knows by now the way Matt holds himself while thinking, while contemplating his options or his answers. And she does so love to watch him. (Loves how completely unguarded she can allow her own expressions to be around him.)

“Up to you. Missed you too much to be picky.”

 _Mmm…_ She smiles, presses it against his skin so he can feel it. “In that case, I’m just taking a breather. What about you? Any…tingling in your extremities?”

His laugh rumbles through his chest (rumbles into hers). “That’s probably a slight understatement, but I doubt there’s any permanent damage happening.”

“Want a second opinion?” Her hand drifts lazily from where it rests on his chest, down, along those ever so masterfully detailed abs (mmm…), play around his _almost_ an outtie belly button –

His hand stops hers, fingers tangling with her, raising their hands to face level where he ghosts kisses over her knuckles. “Thank you, but I have the situation in hand.”

“Well in hand.” She tightens her thighs around his hand, pressing herself into his palm.

“Got your breath back, then?”

“Something like that.”

 

+

 

He’s gentle again, fingertips exploring every bare inch of her, dancing over her face, testing the texture of her skin and the give of her muscles. He holds her down for teasing, searching kisses but allows her to hold him in turn. She uses her grip on his hair to guide him where she wants. (She has always been honest in her desires, and he’s always been responsive to her.)

He slides an arm behind her back, arching her up towards his mouth so that he can nibble at her breasts. His hands shape her, cradle her, while…

“Are you praying down there?” The way his lips move against her is…distinct.

Matt answers with a swirl of tongue around her nipple that’s entirely sinful, and has her arching towards him like a plant towards the sun. Only when she’s breathless and boneless does he actually reply. “Is your body not a temple?”

“Religious puns.” She takes deep breaths, trying to order her thoughts. “We need to get you laid more.”

“Working on it.” He bites at her jawline, palms her breast so that he can test its weight. “My beloved is dark and lovely, altogether beautiful, without flaw.” And he sinks back down, presses open kisses to her cleavage, digs his fingers in and drags them down her body. “Let me feed amongst the lilies until day dawns and my head is soaked with dew…” His hand cups her once more, but this time he rocks his palm into her, sending pulses of (heat) (need) (flame) sensation straight through her.

“ _Jeeesus,_ Matt.”

“You might want to watch out for blasphemy.” Matt returns to his second-favorite place, face tucking into her neck while his fingers slide into her, filling her perfectly. (Sometimes she thinks she likes his fingers more than she likes his cock.) And Matt has learned how to use his hands, how to twist his fingers, where to press, to rub, to curl…

 

+

 

Claire shudders apart under him, breath harsh and fast while her fingers curl into his back with aching desperation. He sees her through it, lips pressed to her pulse and hands stilled. It’s not just her fingers that cling, that pull at him; the slick walls of her sex pull and grasp and ripple… Her sharp sounds of pleasure work their way out of her throat in much the same way, and he can’t help the way he mouths at her.

It makes her clasp tighter. Makes her grab his wrist and hold him exactly where she needs. And she keeps him there while her body shivers and shakes and the tremors move from her to him. (He wants her, wants inside her in whatever way she chooses, but she’s not _done._ ) He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare interrupt her or pounce on her or –

The room is getting hot now, and smells almost entirely of Claire. Oh, he’s in there too – dirty clothes, sweat, aftershave, the salty/tangy scent of…impatience. But mostly it’s her. Her skin, her lotion, her hair, her _body_ … He’s surrounded by her even as she’s trapped beneath him, her pulse settling, lungs slowing.

She stills for just an instant, then shouts, once, as she hitches her hips into the palm of his hand. (Claire’s orgasms do not normally come so closely together. Normally she prefers space between, a chance to rest, to talk, to exchange soft touches. Or desperate touches.)

“Oh! Oh!” Her thighs clamp down hard enough to make his hand ache…and then she subside, the taut arch of her body dropping to the mattress without any grace. “Ohhh… Holy hell, Matt.” She presses awkward kisses against the side of his head. “Holy…shit.”

 

+

 

She rides him, after. Drags him back to the edge of the bed where he can brace his feet against the floor as she climbs into his laps and sinks down on him. He tries to protest – she doesn’t _have_ to, she must be _tired_ , this won’t _last_ long, she generally doesn’t _like_ going without a condom – but his body tells her all she really needs to know. (His legs spread to better balance them, his arm is clamped around her back like a steel restraint, and he buries his face against her skin.) And he’s also right because she _doesn’t_ have to, she _is_ tired, this is most definitely _not_ going to last. But there’s a shower waiting at the other end so the resulting mess is less significant to her than it might otherwise be.

Besides, it’s hardly as if he’s earned the way she sinks down over his cock. (This isn’t a barter system where orgasms for her earn privileges for him.) She wants him inside her. It simply feels more…complete.

(As for being tired, he does all the work. She just has to hold on.)

 

+

 

They shower together, lingering under the lukewarm water even though they spend more time stepping on each others toes than they do trading caresses and stolen kisses. After, Matt rubs lotion into her shoulders, and she smooths moisturizer into his cheeks. They dress (she in a sundress that leaves her shoulders bare, he in a pair of holey jeans that she most definitely approves of), and Claire complains about the lateness of the hour relative to peak produce buying times at the farmers’ market. Matt teases her about how much later they’ll be after she makes them stop for coffee on the way there.

It’s not until they’re on the street, fingers loosely clasped and Matt’s “nothing special to see here” disguise in the form of his cane tapping along before them that Matt clears his throat.

“Claire?”

“Mmm?” She wants to make waffles with mango salsa tomorrow, but can’t remember if she has any agave syrup.

“This may seem…forward –”

“Oh no, anything but that.” He sounds adorably hesitant, and he’s blushing a little, which considering where his cheeks were an hour ago is ridiculous but still endearing.

“ – but are you wearing any panties?”

She settles her hand more comfortably in his while she decides how she wants to answer that. “Supersenses can’t tell you?” Not that she would have chosen a skirt with multiple layers for anything other than fashion. Certainly not for the express purpose of messing with him.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I suppose it isn’t. Haven’t you ever noticed that underwear can be…confining? And, not to inflate your ego, but I’m a little sensitive right now.”

He chokes a little before saying, “Technically, that’s not an answer either.”

“I certainly hope not, since I don’t intend on answering.”

“Claire…”

“I gave you options. It’s your own fault you didn’t choose one, and so now we’re going with delayed ‘undivided attention.’ I just wanted to make sure I kept yours.”

When they have to stop at the corner to wait for their signal, Matt reels her in, pressing the length of his body to hers. “Always,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the original prompt at http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/4501.html?thread=8863893#cmt8863893
> 
> Furthermore, anything that sounds like it probably came from Song of Songs or Song of Solomon or whatever you want to call it is a complete mismash of multiple chapters and translations. Matt's paraphrasing, not quoting.


End file.
